Superboy and the Invisible Girl
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: She knows her role and she plays it well. He expands, she shrinks.


_***Author's Note: Set some time before episode 2.7 Rules of Engagement.***_

* * *

_"Superboy and the Invisible Girl...  
Son of steel and daughter of air.  
He's a hero, a lover, a prince—  
She's not there."_

_~Brian Yorkey, Next to Normal_

* * *

She shuts her office door, closing her eyes as she rests her forehead against the cool metal, her shoulders sagging as she releases a heavy sigh. However, this does not block out the sound of laughter as the rest of her squad responds to yet another one of Jack's jokes.

They like him better than they like her. She's pushed and clawed and finally (_finally_) carved a place for herself here in Major Crimes, and they respect her, but they don't _like_ her. Not in the easy, friendly way that they like Jack.

This doesn't surprise her, because, really, that's how life with Jack has always been. She may be the more dependable and morally stable one, but he is the charmer, the one who makes everyone laugh until they cry, the one who is always invited to dinner parties and birthdays, the one who gives the best toasts and the most extravagant gifts, who always knows the right thing to say at the right time, who knows his role and plays it well.

She knows her role, too—hall monitor extraordinaire, Miss Don't-Cross-the-Line, Miss Play-It-Safe-and-by-the-Book, the necessary evil, the dutifully tolerated and begrudgingly-respected Captain Raydor. And for years (_decades!_), she has obediently played her role, because that was what was expected of her, because she has always stayed between the lines, has always followed the rules of convention and expectation, has always been the good girl, despite the whispers and dark looks and people who begrudge her for being good.

However, knowing that she was playing by the rules had never eased the little voice bubbling in the back of her head every time that she'd walked into the Major Crimes squad room, the one saying _they don't like me_, the sad anxiety that took her back to third grade, when she would have given _anything_ just to be liked, just to be asked to sit at the same lunch table as all the other girls (that's why she'd hated Brenda so much at first, because the woman reminded her of all those girls from Catholic school, pretty and sylph-like and effortlessly feminine in a way that ensured that the normal rules didn't apply to her, because she could simply pout her lips and bat her lashes and walk away scot-free).

Sharon has earned her stripes, though—she's hit the streets, weapon drawn, she's been in battle and that has earned her the blood-bond of her brothers and sisters in-arms, and now, she doesn't dread walking into a room full of detectives anymore, doesn't feel the barely-concealed hostility that was once the hallmark of every interaction she had with every officer outside of her little FID clique. It's been nice, after so many years of being tolerated, to finally be accepted.

But she'll never be accepted in the way that they accept Jack—easily, without hesitation, warts and all. She wants to tell herself that it's because in some ways, LAPD can still be a boys' club, that it's because they have fonder memories of Jack than they do of her, but she knows it's not true and not nearly that simple.

She doesn't need people to like her. She learned that years ago, and it has become her running mantra through life. She used it on her parents (_I don't need you to like me, I just need to like myself, to be OK with my own life choices),_ she used it on her children and even on Rusty (_I don't need you to like me, I need you to be safe, I need to know that you are safe_), she used it on Jack (_I don't need you to like me, I don't need you to love me, I need you to love our kids, your kids_), she used it on Brenda Leigh Johnson (_I don't need you to like me, I need you to let me do my job_), and she still uses it on her squad (_I don't need you to like me, I just need you to trust me_). And it's true. It was true yesterday, it's true today, it was true ten years ago and it will be true ten years from now.

But not needing something doesn't mean that she doesn't still want it, with a longing that sometimes actually presses on her lungs with surprising force at the strangest of times.

Like now.

They are laughing again, and she is filled with the sorrowful acceptance of the even more sorrowful fact that she has never and will never make them laugh like that. She isn't that person, not to them, and they aren't those people, not to her. They work together. That is all. And that is all she needs. She glances across the room, to the little sign that screams WORK WITH ME PEOPLE, and she tries to find it humorous.

That's what she needs—cooperation and respect. Just like air and water and food and shelter. The rest are just details, just garnish. Those are not the reasons that she became a police officer, those are not the things that get her out of bed in the morning, those are not the things that validate her existence or quantify her happiness or self-worth or sense of satisfaction.

With a tiny curt nod of affirmation, Sharon moves back to her desk. She has work to do. That is why she is here. She sits in her chair, willing herself to open the folders and concentrate on the matter at hand—it's an old trick, but one that has served her well (Jack used to joke that he never knew how he got her nose out of a book long enough to notice him, much less date him and then marry him).

Soon, she doesn't hear the voices in the squad room—she's much too absorbed in the minute details, printed out in black ink on white paper, simple and clean-cut and devoid of messy, stupid emotions, free of need or want or fear or longing.

There is a light rap on her door, which she barely registers before the door opens and Lt. Provenza's face appears.

"He's gone," he informs her, and for a moment, she wants to object (_I wasn't hiding, Lieutenant_). Instead, she simply nods.

Provenza takes a moment to observe the captain, who has ducked her head again, like an awkward, shy schoolgirl as she shuffles her papers (how does she do that, how does she go from being ballsy and steely and self-assured to demure and vulnerable and uncertain, in the mere blink of an eye?). He thinks that he knows why she's acting this way (he knows that he knows), and he feels something akin to pity for this woman who certainly isn't his friend, but is no longer his enemy.

She's not meeting his gaze, because she doesn't want to see the truth in his face—she fears that he is actually sad to see her husband leave, fears that he'd rather have Jack in the squad room than Sharon, fears what she has always known (Jack will always be loved more than she is, no matter how much worthier she may be).

The funny thing is that if she would actually look up, she'd see the relief in his face, she'd know that all of her fears are unfounded, and she wouldn't feel whatever angsty emotions that are rolling through her suddenly-fragile frame.

Of course, Provenza could never say these things (it'd be less painful to simply cut off his right hand, instead of fumbling and bungling words about emotions and peace and acceptance and all that rubbish), and Raydor probably wouldn't believe him even if he did.

So instead, he resorts to his usual snark, "I think I got rid of him for a few more hours so that we can work in peace."

Her head snaps up at this, green eyes wide with surprise as her low voice queries, "What did you do, Lieutenant?"

The real question was _what do you mean?_ (_are you saying that you were glad to see him go, are you saying that you don't like Jack Raydor, are you saying that you sent him away?_), though Sharon Raydor could never ask such a thing, could never reveal her own insecurities and weaknesses so easily.

Provenza gives a slight shrug, arching his brow in a nonchalant theatricality that she finds endearing (though she used to find it aggravating and patronizing). "I might have told him that a lawyer friend of mine was looking for a new partner."

"You don't have lawyer friends." There was a knowing warmth in her tone, an almost-gleefulness at this joke.

"I might have said this lawyer was on the other side of town, too."

"You might have?"

"Yes. I might have also given him a false address."

Now she's truly grinning, and he grins with her—two conspirators, two kids sharing a fun secret.

Then he returns to his usual gruff air of all-business, "Now, Captain, can we please go pick up the scumbag who killed Ruby Mullins and bring him in for questioning?"

"We certainly may," she rises to her feet, suddenly invigorated by the turn of events (this is a strange treasure she'll keep close to her chest, a jewel of knowledge, a reassurance that for once, Jack Raydor was not adored by all).

The second she steps out her door, she is the Captain again, her smooth, clipped speech ordering everyone to roll out to the different known hangouts of their current suspect, who stares back at them from a mug shot on the white board.

Flynn notices that she is brighter, more energetic than she was twenty minutes ago, when she had quietly excused herself, leaving her husband out here to talk and joke as she sequestered herself in her office.

He looks at Provenza and gives a slight nod of approval (_whatever you said, good job_).

Provenza gives a confused shrug (_I have no idea what you're talking about_).

Flynn merely shakes his head (that old codger would die before he ever admits to being helpful, even once), turning his attention back to the Captain.

Sometimes, Sharon Raydor has a way of pulling into herself, willing herself to fade into the background, to blend in (that came from the psychological beat-down of a career spent in Internal Affairs, where you learned not to bring attention to yourself, because the other officers hated you on principle). Andy understands that. But it is one thing to choose to be invisible, and it is another thing entirely to be made to feel invisible.

Flynn used to actually like Jack Raydor—he was flamboyant, a hard drinker and a good story-teller, what wasn't to like?—but over the past few weeks, he has seen how Jack's charm seems to be spent on everyone except his wife, who truly deserves every second of his attention and affection (Andy shouldn't think that, but he does). And honestly, it isn't that he doesn't like Jack. He simply doesn't like Jack's effect on Sharon. She shrank around him, without even realizing that she was doing it. It was painful to watch.

Maybe she will stop shrinking, once she realizes that her squad prefers her. Being forced to the front and center as the head of Major Crimes made her stop shying away from others, because she no longer held the stigma of FID, and Flynn watched her become even more self-possessed and assured as she learned to take her rightful place as their captain. Maybe this will happen in her personal life, too—if she can see that there are people who _like_ her, who appreciate her for who she is, who admire her and actually find her enjoyable, maybe it will eventually make her realize that she doesn't have to fade for Jack, for anyone, for any reason.

"Let's go get our guy," she finishes, taking a beat to watch her detectives grab their things, pairing off into their respective details.

Sanchez breezes past her, quietly mumbling, "Don't worry, Cap, we got rid of him. He won't be bothering you for the rest of the day."

She is shocked by these words—firstly by the fact that her squad would think that she needed to be rescued from her own husband's presence, and secondly by the camaraderie behind the statement.

Of course, Sanchez is long gone. She simply smiles softly to herself, looking up to suddenly catch Lieutenant Flynn's gaze. He's smiling softly, too, and she knows that he knows about this charade as well.

They sent Jack away, because they thought that he'd upset her (he had, but no more than usual), and the fact that they noticed, the fact that they cared enough to do something about it, is touching.

They see her. Even when she doesn't realize it. What a novel concept. Being seen. Being seen and being liked for what is seen.

Andy is still watching the various emotions rolling across Sharon's face (he never tires of it, because she tells a thousand stories in a second's time with her expressions). The last nuance is one of warm delight.

It is the moment of her epiphany, and he watches it bloom across her face like the dawning of the sun.

The invisible girl realizes that she isn't invisible anymore. And perhaps she never was.

* * *

_"Take a look at the Invisible Girl...__  
Here she is, clear as the day.  
Please look closely and find her before  
She fades away."_

_~Brian Yorkey, Next to Normal_


End file.
